


Tonight

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, all the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you knew it was your last night aboard the Lost Light, what would you do?</p><p>If you were Drift, you'd spend it with Ratchet, wallowing in a healthy mix of smut and feels.</p><p>A commission for SlimReaper/Iopele.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlimReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/gifts).



> This was a commission for the wonderful [Iopele](http://iopele.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much!

Drift paced in the corridor just beyond the medbay doors, keeping a close watch on the timer counting down in the corner of his HUD. One would think he was waiting for a loved one to get out of surgery. One would be... _ partially _ correct.

 

The timer hit zero, flashing green in his vision, and he was striding through the doors with a sense of single minded purpose. Past the neat rows of berths, many empty, some occupied with mechs that called out greetings to him as he passed by. None of them expected a response, but all of them were grinning as he disappeared through the door at the end marked “C.M.O. Ratchet” with a small sign taped beneath it, hand written, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’.

 

Ratchet was unsurprised to see Drift when he swung the door open, planting himself in the doorway with his fists on his hips and a grin threatening to destroy his fragile poker face. The medic rolled his optics, tossing the cleaning cloth stained with energon into the hazmat container beside his desk and rising to his feet with a soft groan and creaking of joints. Now Drift was having to fight back a frown instead, as he rushed to meet Ratchet halfway, wrapping the protesting medic in a hug. 

 

He’d been craving that contact most of the day. 

 

Ever since his meeting with Rodimus and Ultra Magnus.

 

Ratchet was stiff in his arms, field teeked with a mixture of  _ confusion/frustration/resignation/exasperated love _ that made his spark spin and his optics blur just a bit, but he refused to let go, basking in that familiar field for as long as he felt he could get away with it. The medic reeked of spilt energon, burnt wiring, all barely masked under a heavy layer of antiseptic that made his olfactory sensors itch and burn. 

 

He wondered who Ratchet had prioritized for repairs today.

 

The heavy lump of guilt sitting in his tank kept him from asking, and so he pulled away with a bright smile on his face, rubbing his hands up and down Ratchet’s arms. 

 

“Your shift is over, Ratch!” Ratchet rolled his optics, and the emotions in his field now clearly said he was  _ well _ aware of that, what was the point? “First Aid says you guys are caught up to a point where I can steal you away for a bit, and I have a surprise for you...so...can we go?” 

 

When the medic sighed, again, he felt his resolve, and the cheer he was pumping into his field, start to weaken. 

 

What if...what if he already knew? Maybe he’d hoped Drift would just avoid him for the rest of the cycle?

 

A kiss, chaste, brief, barely there, brought him out of his concerned introspect, and Drift beamed, sliding his hands down the other mech’s strong arms to entwine their fingers. Those talented fingers, those skilled, Primus gifted hands. He still worried, often, that he didn’t deserve to touch them, that his hands, hands that had only ever been good at hurting, himself, others, that they’d only sully and damage hands meant to heal.

 

Ratchet had called it a load of slag, and playfully cuffed him upside the head, the one and only time he’d voiced that concern. 

 

He deleted that line of thought before he could go further with it, focusing on the here and now, on the warm palm pressed to his, on the way Ratchet put up only a token grumble of protest as he was led past all the patients on their berths, and First Aid, who waved cheerily at them before turning back to the chart in his hands. 

 

“Where are we going?” He gave Ratchet credit, the mech’s curiosity held out at least till the doors had closed behind them.

 

“It’s a surprise!” He laughed, leading the medic down the hall and into one of the lifts. 

 

When the doors slid shut behind them, and they were ensconced in the near silence of the elevator, he felt Ratchet’s field loosen up from it’s tense, professional hold. The tiny space was flooded with a strut deep weariness, and more than a little grief. But laced through it was that bright thread of something Ratchet always had when he was around Drift. He was scared to label it, especially now, but in the deepest part of his spark, he dared to let that little ember of hope live that believed it was  _ love _ , for him, and he packaged up that bit of EMF data, and stored it away in a near failsafe partition of his drives for later.

 

For now, he just let himself bask in the sensations, and let himself be pulled back to lean against Ratchet, the medic’s arms a warm band around his waist while they watched the numbers on the screen climb.

 

He wondered, would Ratchet protest if he pulled an emergency stop on the lift? His temperature started to slowly climb at the thought, at doing something that he’d only ever done professionally, dispassionately, with the mech he would have spent the rest of his life with. He could show Ratchet what a good time two mechs could really have in an elevator, if he only pressed that emergency stop button right now.

 

But Ratchet’s hands curled over his hips, and the medic’s chin on his shoulder, warm vents along his back, it was too comfortable, too quietly loving, for him to ruin the moment. He could wait. 

 

_ Just enjoy the moment, Drift, just...just enjoy this closeness while you can. _

 

All too soon the doors opened though, and he pulled away, shameless in his EM protests of leaving that warm embrace. Ratchet snorted, prodding at his back to get him to move, smoothing his own field into the jagged spikes and dips of Drift’s. 

 

“C’mon, kid. Thought you had some grand plan. Didn’t figure it was  _ only _ elevator cuddles.”

 

“Oh hahaha, very funny.” He grinned, spinning on his heel so he was walking down the hall backwards, grabbing hold of Ratchet’s hands and tugging him along. “What, you don’t like the elevator cuddles?”

 

_ He _ liked the elevator cuddles, at least.

 

The walk from the elevator to his own habsuite had never seemed so long, and yet so  _ so _ short. Before he knew it, he was stopping in front of his door, still holding Ratchet’s hands, and he found he didn’t want to let go long enough to input the door code. 

 

Ratchet, on the other hand, had no such problems, and tugged one of his hands free with a dramatic optic roll and a put upon exvent, chuckling as he keyed in the code Drift had given him so long ago.

 

The medic tugged him inside, and headed for the couch, but Drift shook his head, changing their course and leading him towards to the door to his washrack.

 

Perk of being part of command.

 

_ Would Ratchet remember to do all his regular maintenance? _

 

“Drift?” He’d stopped walking, and Ratchet had nearly run into his back.

 

“Huh? Oh...sorry! Just..got a little lost in thought for a minute.” He tamped down on all his dramatic, sad, sorry feelings, pushing them away into a tiny corner of his processor and locking them up tight. Ratchet didn’t deserve this absent minded half sparked attention he was getting.

 

“Drift?” Hands on his shoulders, spinning him around to face the medic’s worried optics. “Drift, are you ok?”

 

“Ratch-”

 

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are a serious, well thought out answer, pause, and rethink.” Ratchet sighed, covering his mouth with one warm, nearly smooth palm.

 

Ratchet knew him too well.

 

“If you had something knocked loose in that fight with Overlord, we’re going straight back down to the med bay so you can get another scan, no arguments. I won’t have you walking around with possible processor trauma because you want to have a romantic evening.”

 

He tried to speak, tried to argue, but his voice was muffled by that gentle hand cupping his mouth, and he pinned Ratchet with a  _ look _ , optics darting between Ratchet’s worried expression, and the hand over his mouth pointedly until it was drawn away.

 

“I’m...I’m not injured, Ratch, I promise.” Matters of the spark, aside, he was healthier than most that had come up against the Phase Sixer the other day. The medics had put him back together good as new, and he barely even felt a twinge anymore where he’d been pulled apart by the monster they’d hidden beneath the floor. 

 

“Really?” He felt the tingle of Ratchet’s onboard scanner despite his protests, and held still for the medical sweep good naturedly. He knew the scan would come back clean. What was troubling him was something Rung would pick up on, but not Ratchet. For all the medic’s famed skills, he needed to be able to physically put things back together. Matters of the processor and spark were out of his level of expertise, and Drift knew how much that frustrated him. 

 

The mech was a healer, through and through. 

 

He waited for Ratchet to peruse the results, and gathered him up into a strut bending hug as soon as the medic huffed an all clear, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

 

“There’s nothing for you to fix, Ratch. Promise.” It killed him to say that. He wanted so badly to unload all his troubles, lay them out in the open and wait for Ratchet to tell him everything was going to be okay, that he didn’t screw up as horrendously as he knew he had, that everything could be put to rights. But that wouldn’t be fair to his beloved medic. So he contented himself with another kiss, this one soft and sweet, pressing his lips to Ratchet’s and offlining his optics so his processor focused solely on the taste, and feel, and scent of the other mech pressed against him.

 

Ratchet was the one to pull away first, breaking their kiss and pressing their foreheads together instead. Their exvents mingled in the air between them, hot and heavy as their frames heated up.

 

“There’s  _ something _ you aren’t telling me…” Ratchet grumbled, crossing his optics to stare at Drift when he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose. 

 

“You’re right.” Ratchet tensed under him, field clamping down tight against his frame and filling with a near 50/50 mix of  _ suspicion/worry _ , and Drift rushed to continue. “I wanted to surprise you, c’mon.” The door to the wash racks opened at his remote command, and he pulled Ratchet inside with a sultry smirk, reaching back behind himself to palm on the cleanser spray and pull a protesting medic beneath its warmth. 

 

It was endearing, the way he practically  _ melted _ under the onslaught of cleanser, his whole frame sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. Dim optics met his as the warm cleanser ran in little rivulets over his helm and down his face, and Drift leaned in to capture that warm, willing mouth in another tender kiss, cradling Ratchet’s face between his palms and pressing the tip of his glossa to the other mech’s lips, craving the taste of him. 

 

Ratchet moaned, stumbling forward, crowding Drift against the wall and devouring him, mouth and hands insistent on his frame in that way that told Drift he’d had an extremely eventful day, and now his medic coding was receding, acknowledging his and his patients’ safety and allowing the excess charge to be funnelled into other, more enjoyable outlets.

 

It would have been easy to forget his plans, to let Ratchet continue with his processor melting kisses, and those hands that knew every spot on Drift’s frame that could turn him into a strutless, mindless wreck. 

 

But then he heard the tell tale scrape of two armor plates snagging and locking up as Ratchet tensed, and he pressed both palms to the pane of glass in Ratchet’s chest, pushing him back a few steps and mourning the loss as cooler air swirled into the empty space between them.

 

He didn’t let that space exist for long, curling his hands around Ratchet’s upper arms and guiding him to sit on the bench along the back wall before taking the sprayer off its hook and kneeling next to him. Thus began the nightly ritual, and if he took a little longer tonight than normal, who was going to complain?

 

Rinsing the daily grime from Ratchet’s plating, pressing the sprayer head up against seams so that some of the cleanser drummed over his bare protoform, suffusing him with heat from the inside, he worked his way from one side of Ratchet’s frame to the other, from top to bottom. Ratchet, by now used to the way Drift insisted on doting over him, relaxed back against the chilly tiles and allowed Drift to work in the peaceful stillness of the room.

 

It didn’t stop at a perfunctory rinse off though. Kneeling between Ratchet’s spread thighs, he reached into the small wire rack storage area beneath the bench and pulled out the various brushes and picks and cloths, laying them in a neat and orderly row on the bench next to the medic’s right hand. 

 

He caught the quirk of Ratchet’s lips, realizing he was seeing in Drift’s need for orderly tools his own, similar, needs in the surgery bay. Smiling softly into the warm expanse of one white thigh, he pressed little kisses to slick, heated metal when Ratchet didn’t comment, merely stroking the side of his helm and filling his field with  _ relaxation/safety/encouragement _ while Drift meticulously cleaned every inch of his plating, shifting when prompted, rolling over onto his front and stretching out on the bench so the process could be repeated on his back. Sitting cross legged on the floor, he waited till Ratchet had sat back up before pulling on heavy foot into his lap and using the more delicate tools to go over all the deceptively fine joints of his ankle and smoothing a cleaning cloth over all of the overlapping, weight bearing plating, top and sole. His other foot received the same treatment, including the removal of a piece of debris that had been jamming one of the gears in his ankle hinge to the point it  _ had _ to hurt to try and move it. 

 

Ratchet bore it all with that same calm focus, and his field steadily flooded with more warmth and appreciation as time continued. Setting his foot carefully back on the floor, Drift ran his hand from ankle to knee, and leaned in to press a kiss to the circular indent in the medic’s abdominal plating, looking up at him from beneath his crest and nibbling delicately at the lightly twitching metal. Ratchet slumped down on the bench with a shiver, legs splaying wide and panel sliding aside nearly silently. 

 

Looking down, Drift watched as the secondary cover over Ratchet’s valve slid aside to reveal the plush outer rim of his valve, already shining with lubricant, external node glowing a bright red, just begging for attention. 

 

_ Well. He didn’t want to be rude, after all. This  _ was _ all about Ratchet.  _ He thought, grinning up at the medic as he leaned in, pressing kisses to the inside of his right thigh, enjoying the way the limb twitched under his mouth as he moved. Ratchet’s hands, which had up until this point rested comfortably on the bench beside his legs, rose to hover just above his head. Drift rose up slightly on his knees till his finials bumped against trembling palms, and warm, knowledgeable fingers curled around the delicate sweeps of metal and tweaked the tips even as they applied the slightest bit of pressure to guide him to where Ratchet wanted his mouth most.

 

He exvented over slick, shining protomesh, admiring the hitch in Ratchet’s vents, the way his fingers tightened around his finials just slightly. Leaning in, the tip of his glossa pressed against that glowing nub, and the reaction he received was beautiful. Ratchet whimpered, hips bucking up off the bench, thighs trembling on either side of his head, and those hands on his finials… He moaned, knowing Ratchet would  _ feel _ it as he pressed his mouth against the warm array beneath his lips.

 

Lapping at warm, soft, supple protomesh, the taste of Ratchet on his glossa was a better addiction than anything he’d ever had before, and he made sure to enjoy it, filing away the experience file in that same section of his memory, the one reserved specifically for Ratchet, and for this night.

 

_ Delete that line of thought. Don’t let him feel it in your field, you glitch. _ He thought to himself viciously, and focused solely on what was in front of him. It was meditation, plain and simple, and he wanted to say Wing never thought for a minute his training would be put to use like this...but who was he kidding? The crazy fragging jet had probably used his training like this just as often. His processor calmed, clearing of all thought, until all that was left behind was his memory logging program, and the data input from his senses, flooded with the taste, scent, and feel of Ratchet. Sealing his lips around the swollen little nub, he flicked over it with the tip of his glossa, alternating with smooth, firm strokes, and listened to the glorious sound of the medic coming apart above, around him. 

 

“Oh, oh  _ slag Drift! _ ” The hands on his finials slid down to curl around his cheek vents, cradling his face even as the medic’s hips rose up off the bench again, twitching, uncoordinated in the face of his overload. Lubricant washed over his glossa, the taste of Ratchet so much stronger, so much fuller when it crackled visibly in the space between them on his lips with the static of released charge, and he tilted his helm back, locking optics with Ratchet, waiting till the medic actually  _ saw _ him, keeping his lips parted and his glossa peeking out so the other could see the way little pops of blue lightning danced in the conductive fluid. 

 

It was like the best fizzy energon treats he’d ever had.

 

And also the reason he couldn’t eat his favorite treats in public anymore. 

 

Smirking, lips still parted, he made a show of curling the tip of his glossa back into his mouth, and savored the popping, crackling sensation against the delicate mesh of the inside of his mouth. Ratchet groaned, letting his helm drop back against the tiles, fingers going slack as he started to pet his finials almost absentmindedly. 

 

Any other night, and he would have been glad to rest his head against Ratchet’s thigh, and let the medic stroke the incredibly tactile sensor arrays till his charge built to near unbearable levels. But tonight, he carefully ducked out from under Ratchet’s skilled touch, and climbed to his feet. 

 

Tonight was about Ratchet, and he wouldn’t let himself get distracted.

 

“Kid, you-” Ratchet gestured to his panel, which had remained sealed throughout the entirety of their shower.

 

He was honestly surprised that he’d been able to keep it shut so far, his frame was far too warm, and his spike pressed insistently against the inside of the modesty plating, his valve cycling down piteously on nothing. That his spike hadn’t dented his panel, and he didn’t have lubricant seeping out along the edges was a small miracle, one that he wasn’t going to argue with. 

 

“It can wait.” Drift smiled, leaning in to steal a soft, sweet kiss from the confused medic’s lips before helping him to his feet and steering him in the direction of the berth.

 

Ratchet was silent and compliant for all of...about three seconds, until he saw the tarp spread out over the berth. Drift had spent quite a while before retrieving Ratchet building the perfect nest, arranging pillows just so to support the medic’s heavy frame, before covering the whole thing with a new, weatherproof tarp. He didn’t want to waste valuable time at the end of the night trying to clean wax and oil and polish (and lubricants of course) from the berth so they could go to sleep. He’d planned this out meticulously, down to the last detail, and the swell of pride in his spark at Ratchet’s stunned expression made all the fretting and careful preparation worth it.

 

The stunned expression didn’t last, and morphed smoothly into suspicion as Ratchet pulled his hands free and turned to face Drift.

 

“Drift, wanna tell me what’s going on?”

 

“What’s going on is that I want to take  _ care _ of you, Ratch. You work so hard,” He stretched up that short distance to steal another sweet kiss, wanting nothing more than to erase that frown, and the deep lines of age and stress and worry and hurt and grief on his beloved’s face. He settled for framing that beautiful, world weary face between his hands and bumping their noses together playfully, “You  _ deserve _ to be spoiled once in awhile. Is that too much to ask, that you let me do for you what  _ you _ won’t do for yourself?”

 

The suspicion changed much less smoothly to exasperation, but there was a distinct undertone of  _ wonder/amazement/ _ and that thing he didn’t want to name in Ratchet’s Field at his explanation, and he took the opportunity to coerce the mech into sitting on the edge of the berth.

 

“C’mon, lie down for me? That’s it, on your front, Ratch, let me work on your back first?” Sliding his hands along Ratchet’s sides had nothing to do with his desire to touch and everything to do with helping the other mech keep his balance.

 

He didn’t fool himself for a minute…

 

Ratchet suffered good naturedly through Drift’s fussing as he nudged pillows and cushions this way and that, cradling his arms and hands, filling in the gaps between his frame and the berth to put as little stress on his frame as possible. He could have continued to tweak and adjust for quite a while longer, kneeling on the berth next to the prone medic, just so he could admire the strong, thick lines of the ambulance’s frame, the way his fingers naturally curled just so into his palms when they were at rest, how he’d rolled his head to the side, cheek cradled in the soft, plush pillow, watching Drift’s every move with optics that became less suspicious and more dim and relaxed with every second spent.

 

But eventually, he could find no other cushion to move, no pillow to fluff, or fold in the tarp to smooth out, and had to admit he was maybe stalling just a bit. It was as if time couldn’t run out so long as he hadn’t finished the night’s plans.

 

_ If only. _

 

He turned on his knees, leaning over the edge of the berth and grabbing the bag he’d stashed his supplies in. Which he nearly dropped when a warm hand palmed his aft, fingers sliding over seams and teasing at wire bundles along the gap at the top of his inner thigh. 

 

Biting his lip, he let the bag rest back on the ground, bracing his hands against the side of the berth and freezing. Ratchet grew bolder when Drift didn’t voice a protest, tracing the slick, nearly invisible lines of his panel, smoothing the beads of lubricant gathered there over hot metal, and Drift’s palms slid a bit on the support strut of the berth as he struggled to keep his panel shut.

 

“If your plan was to give me a room with a view, you certainly succeeded…” Drift’s engine gave a sharp rev at the sound of Ratchet’s voice, lower, rougher than normal, and he bit down just a little harder on his lip to silence the whine building in his vocalizer.

 

“Plan was to give you a whole lot more than that, Ratch.” His voice sounded  _ almost _ normal, and he applauded himself for that as he grabbed the bag and hoisted it up. Ratchet’s hand was innocently back on its cushion when Drift turned back around, and he couldn’t help the fond snicker that bubbled up as he carefully readjusted the cushion beneath it.  _ Again. _

 

“You don’t have to give me anything, Drift...what’s this all about?” There was the suspicion again, and Drift laughed, leaning over to kiss the medic’s shoulder as he moved to straddle his thighs. 

 

“This, Ratch, is about making you feel  _ good _ .” Drift grinned, reaching over Ratchet’s helm to grab the bottle of oil he’d left to warm up on the shelf over the head of the berth. “ _ That’s _ what this is all about.” 

 

Any protests Ratchet had were silenced, cut off by a staticky groan when Drift kneaded the plating at the backs of his shoulders, thumbs digging into plates that had overlapped and locked up, and twisting to pop them free. With that first popped plate, Ratchet melted into the pillow nest, his whole frame sagging under Drift and his field filling with untagged, unnamed warmth and stillness.

 

“That’s it, sweetspark. Just relax. Your frame and your aura both need to be taken care of properly, and that’s what we’re going to do tonight.” He could  _ see _ Ratchet’s optics rolling, and stifled the chuckle threatening to break free.

 

“I can think of a better way to take care of my ‘aura’,” Ratchet grumbled, trying to twist beneath Drift to turn and face him. Drift clamped his thighs tight around Ratchet’s, and leaned into his palms to not only work out the tight, stressed tensors in his back, but also pin him in place. Ratchet’s grumbling turned to incoherent, wordless moans when Drift’s fingers slipped beneath plating to smooth out the crimped wires near his spinal strut.

 

“Oh...I think I can guess what you mean by that, love.” Drift leaned down, all but purring in Ratchet’s audial, enjoying the extremely audible way Ratchet swallowed, optics dim and lower lip trapped between dentae. “Let me guess...does it involve my mouth? Hmm?” He shifted lower as he spoke, rocking pressure between his thumbs and the heels of his palms as he started work on Ratchet’s lower back. 

 

The medic shifted, back arching, aft raising up just slightly off the berth at Drift’s words, and his fans had come on with the rattle of a bearing going bad.

 

_ Send First Aid a message in the morning, he won’t get it fixed till it fails, otherwise.  _ Drift thought to himself with a sigh, even as he leaned further onto his hands, feeling the plating he’d been fighting with finally sink back into proper alignment.

 

“My mouth on your array?” He continued, sliding his hands around to curl over Ratchet’s hips, rocking against the backs of his thighs. “My glossa in your valve, maybe? You know I could do that for as long as you’d let me, and I’d never get tired of the taste of you? I love the way you cycle down around me when you overload, you know, like you’re trying to pull me further in.” Ratchet shuddered, fingers curling into tight fists against his palms now as he squirmed, pressing back against Drift and burying his face in the pillow.

 

Drift poured a little bit of the heated oil into his palms, and worked the slick stuff into his fingertips as he spoke. “Or maybe you want me to swallow your spike? Hmmm? Tastes just as good. I love it when you try and hold back, when your hands just hover over the back of my helm, as if you think I don’t  _ notice _ them shaking and trembling back there. You want to touch, but you don’t want to lose control, take what you really want, yea? I love how much you worry about my comfort, about not hurting me, babe. And  _ you _ love it when I do that thing with my glossa, against all those nodes just under the head of your spike?” 

 

He pressed carefully into widened seams as Ratchet flared his plating to get more cool air to his protoform, stroking along wire bundles, smoothing the oil into seams and hinges and over the woven cable casings winding through it all. 

 

“Or maybe you’d rather I spike you? You’re all nice and loose for me now, bet I could probably get your knees up against your windshield real easy, huh? Just roll you onto your back, pin you open, and frag you into recharge?” Ratchet’s thighs strained between his, struggling to slide apart, to give Drift the space needed to do an approximation of just that.

 

He mouthed at twitching back plating, just above that delectable red aft, and nipped, grinning, when Ratchet shivered.

 

“Or maybe you’d rather spike  _ me _ ? Bend me over the berth maybe? Or lift me up, pin me against the wall? Ratch, babe, I don’t think you realize  _ just. How. Hot _ I think it is when you prove how strong you are. You pick me up, even just to make me move, and I don’t think you notice how hot I get.”

 

Ratchet’s engine gave a sharp rev, the vibrations of it travelling through his frame, and through Drift’s. 

 

Drift by this point had moved on to the medic’s legs, and was nearing his ankles as he spoke, working gently around the delicate mechanisms, the redundant stabilizers that let him stay on his feet with an unconscious patient in his arms even as the building was falling down around him.

 

Ratchet squirmed, free to raise his hips up off the berth now that Drift wasn’t pinning his legs down, and did just that, pulling his ankle free of Drift’s hands and getting his knees under himself. Nobody could or would blame him for admiring the view Ratchet made, knees spread, valve shining with lubricant, node and biolights glowing brightly in the dim, relaxed atmosphere of the room. His spike bobbed between his thighs, and had left a damp patch on the tarp beneath them. 

 

Drift swallowed, intake suddenly gone dry at the thought that while he’d been touching his medic, whispering all these thoughts into his audial, Ratchet had been rubbing his spike against the berth, trying to find some sort of friction, just a bit of relief. That  _ he’d _ done that to him, turned him on so much just by  _ speaking _ , that he’d been rutting against the sheets.

 

He wanted to torment Ratchet, to tease him till he was so mindless with pleasure, with the want to overload, that he forgot his own name, his only function, his only  _ purpose _ in life to  _ feel _ . Instead, he leaned in, draping himself over the medic’s back, mouthing at flexing neck cables as he encircled the fully pressurized red and and white spike with his fingers, one by one.

 

“We’re only  _ just getting started _ .” He whispered against Ratchet’s throat, grin wicked as the medic gasped, back curving, hips bucking into the warm pressure of his hand as he sought that overload. Shoulders and helm pressed against the berth, aft in the air, rocking between Drift’s fist and his panel, it was a testament to his willpower that his own panel remained sealed as Ratchet came to a shuddering overload, cries muffled into the pillows as hot fluid dripped down his hand to the berth.

 

A small, petty part of him wanted to flick the fluids from his hand, over the side of the berth. Let someone else clean up  _ his _ mess, just once. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, settling for wiping it off on the tarp near the edge of the berth, out of the way, and thumbing up the few drips that had landed beneath Ratchet. He waited till Ratchet looked over his shoulder, face flushed, lips parted and optics dim, before popping his thumb between his lips and grinning around the digit, pulling his lip back to show a little fang, just like he knew the medic liked.

 

“ _ Slag _ , kid…” Ratchet panted, fans running high and hard, optics focused on Drift’s glossa as he curled it around his thumb, licking up the miniscule amount of fluid and turning it into a show, “You tryin’ to kill me?”

 

“Just the opposite. Wanna make you feel alive, sweetspark.” He laughed, easing the medic’s hips back down against the berth and readjusting the pillows cradling his legs, his knees that he complained about often, the extra one under his bad hip. He wanted Ratchet to feel alive. More importantly, _he_ needed to _feel_ him alive beneath his hands, spark beating and energon pumping through his lines. He’d been so sure he was going to lose him, that Rodimus’ lack of ability to say _no_ would see the mech he’d dreamed about for _millions of years_ finally dead at the hands of a soldier no side wanted, in a war that was officially over.

 

He retook his seat on the backs of Ratchet’s thighs, distributing much of his weight on his own shins and knees to avoid unnecessary pressure on the medic’s legs. He knew Ratchet could handle a lot more of his weight, but he enjoyed pampering the heavier mech, and Ratchet never complained...much.

 

He did, however, tense beneath Drift when he heard the lid of the tin of wax being removed.

 

“Told you, tonight is all about spoiling you.” He snickered, balling up a handful of the smooth, clean smelling wax that he knew Ratchet preferred, when he could actually pin the busy mech down long enough to use it. He worked the thick substance between his palms till it had softened considerably, warmed by his body heat. 

 

When his wax covered hands first smoothed over Ratchet’s broad backplates, the medic moaned, and where he’d tensed up again after having to be readjusted, he  _ melted _ , strutless and vocal with his appreciation as Drift worked the high end wax into his plating one section at a time with firm, heavy strokes of his hands. 

 

Sunstreaker would have a fit if he knew Drift always applied the first coat by hand, but what the other frontliner didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And tonight, especially, Drift was going to use every excuse in the book to get his hands on his medic.

 

Every inch of plating was meticulously coated, the wax rubbed in with fingers and palms till Ratchet’s nanites had absorbed it all, and already his paint looked healthier, refreshed and crisper, just from that little bit of attention. He buffed out every plate with a soft, smooth cloth, careful to go over old weld scars where wax tended to clump in the grooves, gentle and loving in his ministrations as Ratchet’s engine idled slow and soft, a sign that the medic had moved from turned on to nearly asleep.

 

His spark warmed at that, the thought that the medic trusted him enough to let his guard down like that, to let an ex-con and gutter mech literally  _ have his back _ . Ratchet would tell him to knock it off with those thoughts, that he wasn’t who he used to be.

 

“Can hear y’ thinkin’ back there, Dr’ft…” Ratchet mumbled into the pillow, and Drift had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the uncanny timing. “Knock it off...you’re...oh  _ slag _ , right there…” Drift leaned in a little heavier when instructed, feeling something shift before Ratchet groaned, going even  _ more _ limp, if that was possible. “Mmmmm….so good to an old medic...s’ don’t be thinking bad ‘bout yourself, hear me?”

 

He wasn’t going to cry.

 

He  _ wasn’t. _

 

Instead, he nodded, though Ratchet couldn’t see, and bent down to press a kiss to the side of his helm.

 

“Ok, Ratch, I promise.” He said softly, and hoped he’d be able to keep his promise. 

 

After a long, drawn out polishing that left the medic’s back plates clean and smooth, with just a hint of shine to them (he’d never hear the end of it if he polished him to a mirror finish after all…), he helped Ratchet roll over. 

 

The sight of him, as he turned, revealing his face, it stole the air from Drift’s cooling systems. Ratchet was  _ happy _ . That open, relaxed expression, the beautiful smile, the dim optics, it all painted the picture of the mech Ratchet was under all the bluster and bravado. Tears stung the corners of his optics, and he laughed, flashing a watery smile before ducking his head and fussing to rearrange all the cushions to support Ratchet on his back now.

 

A hand cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking at the slats in his cheek vent, as he hunched next to a bright red hip. 

 

“Drift?” 

 

“You’re beautiful, Ratch, that’s all. Just, never fails to catch me by surprise, how beautiful you are when you let yourself relax.” Drift grinned, bending over and pressing a kiss to the center of the disc in Ratchet’s abdomen. The plating under his lips twitched, and he mouthed his way up white plating to pepper clean, cleanser streaked glass with kisses as he shifted to kneel between Ratchet’s spread thighs.

 

He was gorgeous, spread out like this, just for Drift, just for  _ his  _ hands,  _ his _ mouth...Ratchet...precious, kind, loving Ratchet. He never asked for anything, never expected anything of Drift, but also never ran out of patience and faith in him, either. 

 

He funneled every bit of that awe and gratitude into his field, and into his hands as he massaged out every kink and overlap in Ratchet’s frame from head to toe. As he worked down first one arm, then the other, he was careful to leave his hands untouched, moving from wrist back up to shoulder. He worked his way down, slowly, meticulously, and pressed a cheeky little kiss to the tip of Ratchet’s spike as he dug careful fingers into the wide seams along the insides of his thighs to get at curled and twisted cable bundles. 

 

Ratchet moaned, and a peek up saw the way he pressed his lips into a thin line to try and silence himself, the way his head tilted back as his frame arched up, trying to chase after the fleeting touch of lips and glossa. Drift waited till he was sure the medic was watching before he let his glossa peek out, swiping up the little bead of fluid on the tip of his spike and moaning as the taste hit his sensors. 

 

While he worked on the plating of Ratchet’s thighs, he licked and nuzzled along his shaft, savoring the warm metal and clean, unique taste that he could only describe as Ratchet. The medic’s field was hot, chaotic, buffeting against him in a wordless plea while its owner stayed silent, save for the scream of fans on high. 

 

Taking pity on him, Drift pressed down on red hips with both hands, leaning in and wrapping his lips around Ratchet’s spike with a spark felt moan. He switched his grip from hips to wrists when he caught movement out of the corner of his optic, pinning the medic’s hands down and keeping him from ruining his hard work. Again. He was admittedly a little surprised at the sudden burst of  _ lust _ in the other’s EMF at that, and tightened his grip fractionally. When Ratchet’s field responded with more pleasure and desire at the tightened grip, he didn’t bother to hide the smirk that curled the corners of his lips around that warm, heavy spike.

 

It didn’t take long at all, with how worked up Ratchet had become during the course of his pampering. Between the tight restraints on his wrists, and the way Drift bobbed his head, glossa teasing along plating seams, Ratchet was moaning, writhing, field full of that wordless plea for release that Drift was all too happy to give him. 

 

“Dri- _ ah _ - _ Drift! _ ” Ratchet tried to warn him, but Drift already knew, from the way the medic’s plating rattled, unable to decide whether it wanted to slick down tight against his protoform or flare away, the way his biolights pulsed rapidly, in time with his spark beat, how he arched up off the berth, back bowing, head tilting back to expose the long line of his throat. When the first burst of transfluid hit his glossa, he swallowed, hollowing his cheeks and sealing his lips around the pulsing spike as Ratchet overloaded with a hoarse shout, shuddering and shaking through yet another overload under Drift’s watchful optics.

 

He released Ratchet’s softening spike, lapping along the plating in delicate little strokes of his glossa to clean off any remaining streaks of fluid and bathing in the warm glow of Ratchet’s field. Rising to his knees, he released the medic’s wrists, pulling them up one at a time to gently kiss the warm armor where his hands had been while Ratchet whimpered, fingers curling and uncurling weakly, trying and failing to catch hold of Drift and pull him close. 

 

“Ah ah, keep those right here, sweetspark? I have plans for them in a little bit.” Drift chuckled, carefully replacing those talented hands on their cushions and reaching for the wax.

 

Ratchet grumbled, glaring balefully up at him and not quite pouting. 

 

That grumpy expression melted back into bliss when Drift started in with the wax and polish treatment, much the same as he’d done for his back. It wasn’t until he was completely satisfied that every inch of Ratchet had been attended to, that he turned his attention back to those woefully neglected hands. 

 

Shifting up to straddle Ratchet’s thick, sturdy waist, he pulled one hand up, curling both hands around so he could dig his thumbs into the split palm plate and massage outwards in slow, firm circles. Ratchet was quiet, optics burning bright but EMF steady and still.

 

“Ratch, love, turn your sensors back on.” Drift chided him, ducking his helm and popping one bright red finger into his mouth, optics locked with Ratchet’s and watching, waiting. He could tell the moment Ratchet did as he was asked, optics flaring white and then resetting completely as his mouth fell open on a moan that devolved into static halfway through.

 

The digit in his mouth twitched, curling slightly and pressing against his glossa as Ratchet processed the sudden influx of data, field swelling and overwhelming them both with the absolute  _ ecstasy  _ the medic felt, and Drift couldn’t override the requests on his HUD any longer. While he sealed his lips around the single digit and sucked, his panel slid aside, spike pressurizing and valve pressing against hot plating as he rocked, hoping for a little friction, just a tiny bit of relief from his oversensitive array. He didn’t want this to end already, didn’t want it to be over yet. 

 

So what if he was selfish?

 

So what if he was being greedy?

 

He wanted to enjoy Ratchet for as long as he could, even if it meant he faced tomorrow with no recharge or energy in his frame.

 

Ratchet, seemingly oblivious to the direction his thoughts had turned, pressed the tip of his middle finger against Drift’s lips, optics wide and pleading, mouth open on a wordless gasp or plea, Drift couldn’t tell. Parting his lips, he greeted the new intruder with the tip of his glossa, teasing each delicate joint as Ratchet pressed it in alongside the first. Sensors intended for gathering temperature and stability data in damaged patients were overwhelmed by the heat of the inside of his mouth, the wet slide of metal against the finer protomesh of his glossa almost too much for Ratchet by this point. 

 

The medic’s free hand gripped Drift’s thigh, not quite hard enough to  _ dent _ , but enough to dimple the curved plating as he was pulled flush against Ratchet’s overheated frame, urged to move, to split his attention between the fingers on his glossa and the heated metal of Ratchet’s frame between his thighs, rubbing against his valve and node. He shifted, following Ratchet’s guiding hand, edging forward on his knees till he rested over Ratchet’s chest plate, the slick slide of his valve against clean glass sending shivers up and down his spinal strut to settle in a pleasant tingle of heat low in his tank. 

 

Drift rose up on his knees, still suckling on the warm fingers in his mouth, and guided Ratchet’s free hand to his valve, rocking against the knuckles Ratchet teasingly rubbed against him. 

 

“Oh,  _ oh Primus, Ratch, please… _ ” He sobbed, the words muffled around his mouthful. The sentiment was understood though, and his field flooded with  _ gratitude/pleasure/relief/yespleasethankyouPrimus _ when two of those talented digits pressed past the clenching rim of his valve to stretch him (not enough, not  _ nearly  _ enough, but it was something, oh thank Primus  _ why _ had he been denying himself?!) and stroke over internal sensory clusters that sent sparks off behind his optics as he shuddered.

 

“That’s it, Drift...overload for me?” Ratchet’s voice was low and hoarse, as he curled the fingers in Drift’s valve, stroking over that sensor rich front wall and rolling the pad of his thumb over his swollen nub. Drift shuddered, thighs tensing, as he tightened his grip on Ratchet’s wrist, gasping around the fingers on his glossa as he slumped forward, free palm on the berth next to Ratchet’s helm the only thing holding him up as overload flooded his systems.

 

Ratchet didn’t let up, keeping steady pressure on sensitive sensor clusters as Drift rode out the last of his overload. There was that indefinable feeling in his field again, and a strange combination of awestruck and smug on his faceplates that  _ just wouldn’t do _ . 

 

Carefully, purposefully, he tightened his valve calipers in rippling waves up and down the fingers still teasing his internal sensors, and delicately scraped the very tips of his fangs over the ones taking up space in his mouth. He didn’t bother to hide the grin that curled the corners of his mouth or the satisfaction that swamped his field as Ratchet froze, mouth open on a wordless cry as his field overwhelmed with silent praise and pleas. Charge crackled in the seams of his plating, and Drift found himself (once again) marvelling at how quickly he could bring his lover to the brink just by focusing on his hands. 

 

He brought the hand that had been supporting him up to tease at seams lit up with charge, swirling through the crackling currents, enjoying the way it seemed to eddy around his fingers, almost liquid in its reaction. Ratchet squirmed, fingers twitching, and Drift very purposefully focused on anything _ but _ how he was filled by those talented fingers from both ends. An artful little rolling squeeze with his calipers, and some well timed suction applied to the fingers between his lips, and Ratchet’s optics were dimming sporadically in overload as charge released in a wave over his frame.

 

By the time Ratchet found coherency again, Drift had laid both of those bright red hands out on their cushions once more, and shifted down till he could rock against the medic’s repressurizing spike.

 

He sank down, moaning at the delicious stretch of his calipers parting for the hot, thick spike, just as Ratchet’s optics onlined, and as quick as they’d lit up, they went dim again. Hands curled tight around his hips, tense and trembling in a way that spoke volumes about Ratchet’s mental dilemma. To pull him down flush in one quick move, to seat himself to the hilt in Drift’s valve and enjoy the warm, wet clench of calipers around his spike the same way he’d already enjoyed the earlier preview? Or to hold him still, to savor the act, and to make sure Drift didn’t injure himself by rushing.

 

Drift could all but read Ratchet’s mind as the options fought for dominance in his processor.

 

Then he took the decision out of the medic’s hands. Figuratively speaking.

 

Plating pressed flush to plating, and Drift curled his fingers against Ratchet’s windshield with a squeak of metal to clean glass.

 

The reverence on Ratchet’s face, in his field, as his fingers flexed around Drift’s hips, the way his optics flickered as he clearly fought to stave off overload as Drift worked him over without so much as twitching his hips, the tiny peek of glossa as Ratchet wet his lips, the puffs of steam from his taxed vents, it was  _ beautiful _ . Drift moved as if on autopilot, focusing on capturing every moment to save in permanent storage to relive over and over again.

 

Ratchet seemed unwilling or unable to remain complacent for long, however, and the hands on his hips tightened once more, pulling him down even as Ratchet bucked up, their plating striking with a ringing sound that Drift didn’t hear over the sounds of his own fans, the sharp, breathy little gasps that Ratchet seemed to force from him with every move of his hips as the spike stretching his valve wide slid over what felt like every sensor he possessed. His tac-net was awash with feedback, pleasure racing up and down his spinal strut like skittering starbursts behind his optics to pool in the pit of his tank behind a band of pressure that tightened with every thrust, and suddenly? He wasn’t in control anymore. All he could do was plant his hands on Ratchet’s windshield for support, and go along for the ride as Ratchet fragged him from below.

 

His knees slid on the berth, and Ratchet took the extra weight without missing a beat. Now Drift had no illusion of control left, and  _ Primus _ , he loved it. He was free with the sounds that built in his vocalizer, whimpers and moans and gasps and pleas for ‘more,  _ please, oh Ratch, sweetspark, yes!’ _

 

Ratchet was more than happy to oblige, and Drift couldn’t recall later what it was that  _ actually _ pushed him over the edge, the actual interfacing, the show of raw strength as Ratchet lifted and lowered Drift repeatedly to meet each thrust of his hips as if he weighed nothing, or the overwhelming sense of  _ love _ that he still refused to define that was all that made up Ratchet’s field at the moment of overload.

 

Whatever it was, option one, two, or three, or a mix of all the above, it was enough to knock him senseless as his charge released in a wash of sparks and a streak of fluids that striped up Ratchet’s abdomen and even spattered little droplets of silver over the medic’s windshield.

 

He wanted to slump forward, to collapse against his medic and listen to their engines slow and their plating cool, but he wasn’t through yet. He distinctly recalled a  _ list _ of things he’d whispered into Ratchet’s audial that he fully intended to follow through on, and so only pressed an apologetic kiss to Ratchet’s slack mouth as he lifted himself up on weak knees. It took an impressive amount of willpower to hold back his own whimpers as his valve suddenly felt incredibly empty, calipers cycling down as he rose up, trying to hold onto Ratchet for as long as possible.

 

He did his level best to ignore the empty feeling of calipers rolling down on nothing as he lay himself down between Ratchet’s thighs. Ratchet splayed them obscenely wide, surprisingly flexible despite his frame, to make room for Drift, even as he made curious noises in the back of his vocalizer.

 

Drift only grinned, lifting one of Ratchet’s strong, thick thighs to drape over his shoulder and leaning in to press a warm, suckling kiss to the medic’s node. The leg over his shoulder tensed across his back, a show of a medic’s strength that would have pulled him down flat to the berth, if he hadn’t been expecting it.

 

As it was, joints locked, he could enjoy the way Ratchet tensed around him as he flicked his glossa over the bright glow of his node. 

 

He let his optics offline for a moment, so he could just enjoy the scent, the taste, the overwhelming sense of  _ Ratchet _ that surrounded him in that moment.

 

That’s why he was caught off guard when hands gripped beneath his arms, and Ratchet hauled him up to drape across his frame, their pelvic arrays pressed flush together with a jolt of heat so strong Drift found himself shuddering on the sudden, surprising edge of overload himself. 

 

Strong legs locked together across the backs of his thighs as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and steady hands framed his face, pulling him down into a searing kiss that ended far too soon for his liking. As he hovered, gasping, optics locked with Ratchet’s, the medic stroked smooth thumbs over his cheeks and smirked.

 

“Enough teasing, I distinctly recall something about ‘fragging me into recharge’?” Oh  _ Primus _ , he did the air quotes.

 

He was so ridiculously in love with this mech that it  _ hurt _ .

 

To hide the cleanser gathering in the corners of his optics, he leaned in for another kiss as he shifted his weight to his knees, and slid his hands down smooth, clean, freshly polished plating to cup the backs of Ratchet’s thighs and slowly, carefully, push them up as he broke the kiss.

 

“I also promised that I’d see how flexible you were while I did, remember?” He purred, enjoying the feel of tensor cables stretching taut along the backs of those smooth white thighs beneath his hands, as Ratchet relaxed into the stretch. Red hands curled over black, fingers intertwining as Drift rocked against Ratchet’s exposed array, spike sliding through slick, hot folds, over his node, and neither of them could silence themselves, a duet of shaky moans and heavy exvents as Drift’s spike slipped over the rim of Ratchet’s valve again, and a third time. 

 

A quick adjustment of his hips, and on the next pass, Drift bit his lip as the head of his spike nudged past the rim of Ratchet’s valve, and plush, slick heat welcomed him as silky valve lining spread around him, and the textured bumps of exposed sensors rubbed against his spike in a way that make his knees weak and the warm, tingling pressure in the pit of his tank coil tighter.

 

He dropped forward onto his palms, braced on either side of Ratchet’s face, and leaned in for another kiss, swallowing the gasped  _ Drift _ as Ratchet draped his legs over the speedster’s shoulders and brought shaky hands up to curl around the back of his helm, pulling him in deeper, glossas tangling together and exvents mingling in the heat distorted air around them as Drift’s pelvic plating bumped up against Ratchet’s, and his spike brushed over the deepest nodes in Ratchet’s valve.

 

When Drift broke this kiss, he pressed their foreheads together, lips brushing as they both gasped for air. The first long, slow thrust had them both shuddering, and Drift forced his optics to remain online, to record Ratchet’s every reaction, even as Ratchet’s own optics shuttered, helm tilting back to expose the curve of his throat. 

 

Leaning in, he nipped at the exposed cables, lapping at the little almost invisible indents left behind, and Ratchet’s legs and arms tightened around him, the only cage he ever wanted to be trapped in, and he pressed a soft, suckling kiss to the pulsing main energon line beneath his lips in response, as he set a slow, steady, loving pace. 

 

The faint taste of energon on his glossa, and he pulled back to admire the darkened mark on Ratchet’s throat, a last mark, a reminder that he’d been here, that, for a while, he’d been loved in return by this amazing, beautiful, wonderful mech. His throat closed up on the hot ball of emotions that suddenly lodged there, and he pressed his face against warm cabling again to hide his expression as he flooded his field with  _ love/desire/ _ **_thankyou_ ** and picked up the pace. 

 

Ratchet shifted slightly with every thrust, hips rising to meet his, back sliding on the sheet, and the cushions beneath. His limbs were locked, refusing to let go of their leech-like hold on Drift, and Drift was content with that for a while longer, mouthing at any expanse of metal or cable he could get his lips on, scraping dentae and soothing marks with soft, tender swipes of his glossa after.

 

It wasn’t until he felt the telltale rippling of calipers around his spike that he rose back up onto his knees, pace slowing to a near standstill as he guided one of Ratchet’s legs back down to the berth, and pressed his palm against the other, keeping him spread open for him. His free hand stroked soft and gentle down the central line of his frame, fingers circling the rim of the indent in his abdomen as his hips snapped forward, picking up a rhythm much faster than earlier.

 

Trailing his hand lower, he curled his fingers around the hard, heavy length of Ratchet’s spike, pumping in time with his own thrusts, but Ratchet shook his helm, and tugged at his hand until Drift let him relocate it to where he most wanted it. Pressing his thumb down against Ratchet’s swollen, slick node, rocking little circles into the trapped nub of sensors and protomesh, he watched, wide opticked, as Ratchet arched up off the berth, legs twitching and calipers tightening down to just shy of painful around his spike. Overload crackled across his plating in a wash of faintly visible blue light, and a rush of fluids from spike and valve alike. His name was on Ratchet’s lips, a faint, loving praise, whispered into the air between them as Ratchet slowly came back down into himself.

 

The whole time, Ratchet never broke optic contact, and it was that, more than anything else, that tipped him into overload right after the medic, slumping forward with a quiet whimper, not daring to let anything louder escape his vocalizer for fear of missing a single second of Ratchet’s voice in the midst of overload. 

 

“Love you, Drift…” Ratchet sighed, smiling up at him, palm pressing against his cheek. He turned to press a kiss into the warm, relaxed plating, optics dimming as he soaked up the  _ content/sleepy/loving _ touch of Ratchet’s field against his plating and the curve of fingers against his face, the way Ratchet’s thumb stroked softly down the line of his nose, index finger smoothing over the soft, thinner plating under his optic. 

 

“Love you too, Ratch, more than anything else in the universe.” Drift finally responded, letting go of Ratchet’s leg and easing it back down onto the berth, fingers finding and rubbing out the tension in the cabling beneath heavy plating. 

 

“C’mere, you sap.” Ratchet chuckled, drawing him up against his chest, one hand on his back and the other cradling the back of his helm as he settled into the plush cushion nest with a satisfied sigh. “Worry about the mess later. For right now, let’s just relax?”

 

Drift smiled, twisting to kiss Ratchet’s cheek, and then let himself be shifted around till he was tucked up against Ratchet’s side, soaking up the excess heat the medic’s fans were dumping, enjoying the warmth suffusing his quickly chilling frame. Resting his cheek on Ratchet’s windshield, optics focusing on the grim red badge proudly centered there, he let himself enjoy the slow, tender strokes of those talented hands down his back and side, while Ratchet’s venting evened out and his field calmed down into the relaxation of recharge.

 

As soon as he was sure the medic was solidly in recharge, he carefully wormed his way out from under the heavy band of Ratchet’s arm around his waist, and slipped out of the hab suite. He’d let the mech rest for as long as possible while he set affairs in order, cleaning Ratchet up one last time would be his final act aboard the Lost Light.

 

In the meantime, he met with First Aid, giving him a list of things he’d noticed Ratchet needed repaired or inspected. Once the CMO in training had taken the list, with much confusion on his face and in his field, and headed to his workstation, Drift snuck into the back room, where the med-droid was recharging in its docking station.

 

It was the quick work of a few minutes to insert the new coding into its protocols, and, after locking Ratchet out from rewriting it with his TIC code, he was reassured that  _ somebody _ would make sure the grump took his lunch ration, every day.

 

Before slipping out, he tucked a few hand written notes into places where he knew Ratchet would find them.

 

On his way back to the suite, he ran into Swerve in the hall.

 

“Oh! H-hey, Drift, buddy, how’s it going?” Swerve seemed jumpy, and he couldn’t blame the mech, everyone had been on edge since Overlord’s rampage. He projected a calm field as he steered the minibot into a side hall.

 

“Do me a favor?”

 

“Of course! Anything!”

 

“Make sure Ratchet doesn’t drink too much?” Swerve seemed confused, but agreed. It was his duty as a bartender, after all. He couldn’t in good conscience aid a mech in drinking themselves ill. Drift clapped him on the shoulder, and walked away from the confused mech feeling better about what he had to do. His number one worry had been that Ratchet would hit the engex hard. Hopefully...hopefully Swerve could keep his word in the face of an angry CMO demanding a refill.

 

He chuckled at that, as he stepped back inside his hab suite, the image of Swerve cowering behind his bar, from  _ Ratchet, _ of all people. The mech who slept so peacefully in his berth, curled up around the spot where Drift had lain with him.

 

Slipping something under the pillow beneath Ratchet’s helm was quick work, and as the new timer in the corner of his HUD counted down his last few hours, Drift slipped back into the berth, soothing Ratchet back to sleep with whispered nothings when the medic stirred. Cleaning up could wait a little longer. Right then, he just wanted to be close to his beloved.

 

~~~

 

Ratchet threw the empty glass in his hand down on the bar, the tinkling sound of shattered crystal satisfying in his audials as Swerve cowered, but held firm on his strange refusal to  _ refill his slagging drink _ .

 

It had been nearly a  _ week _ since Drift had blindsided him, waking him with a gentle kiss as he cleaned his frame of the remnants of what had turned out to be their last night together. That same morning, he ‘admitted’ to the crew gathered in the hold about his sole responsibility for the ‘Overlord incident’ as it was being referred to.

 

That same day, he’d nearly broken his Do Not Harm oath, and Rodimus’ face, along with it. 

 

The med-drone was glitching, insisting on not only bringing him his lunch time ration, but  _ watching _ till he finished it, and no amount of cajoling could reprogram it. 

 

When he’d found out whose code had locked it down, he nearly scrapped the thing.

 

And of  _ course _ First Aid suddenly had a mysterious  _ list _ of Ratchet’s physical ailments he wanted to repair. He almost felt bad for shouting. He didn’t feel bad for the extra duty shift he’d assigned the junior CMO when he’d gotten mouthy with Ratchet and tried to bully him into compliance.

 

It hadn’t taken him long to realize Drift had gotten into his office. His data console pinged him reminders to ‘Please stretch, sweetspark’, or ‘It’s time to rest, you work too hard’ when he worked long hours without pause. 

 

He kept finding stashes of his favorite energels hidden away in various places, all carefully wrapped and sealed to stay good till he stumbled across them.

 

The last straw had been the notes, also tucked into various hiding spots around the med-bay. His office. Their hab suite, which Roddy had wisely decided to  _ not _ try and boot Ratchet out of.

 

_ ‘Don’t Forget To Fuel’ _

 

_ ‘Oil your left wrist before it gets rough again, you always forget.’ _

 

_ ‘Please recharge?’ _

 

At first, he’d been  _ furious _ . Drift had known the  _ whole time _ that he was getting exiled. In retrospect, it was  _ obvious _ . The mech must have been up nearly the entire night cycle doing all of this, when he could have been spending it with Ratchet. Instead, he’d let him sleep, while he wandered off to write  _ stupid fragging notes and hide fucking candy _ .

 

He’d torn more than one of the notes up before he’d cooled down.

 

Then he was horrified with himself.

 

First he’d pieced the damaged notes back together, and _ where did Drift find  _ **_paper_ ** _?! And how was his handwriting so  _ good!?

 

It was stupid. It was pathetic, and sentimental, and he couldn’t  _ help _ it. If this was all he had left of Drift, of the mech who’d loved him so wholesparkedly, without asking for anything in return, who’d taken such loving care of him, then how could he destroy them?

 

That night, he’d torn their hab apart, finding all the little notes tucked away on shelves, behind furniture, tucked into the corner of the entertainment screen.

 

Sitting on the bed, with all the little, painstakingly beautiful notes spread out in his lap, his spark  _ ached _ . Tears pricked at his optics, and he didn’t bother to brush them away.

 

_ ‘You’re so beautiful.’ _

 

_ ‘Please don’t ever change.’ _

 

_ ‘Take care of yourself for me?’ _

 

_ ‘Never forget how important you are to me?’ _

 

He grabbed his pillow, clenching it tightly between both hands and pressing it to his face, muffling screaming, sobbing, he honestly couldn’t say what. All he knew was that the pillow was more than damp when he pulled it away, and his face felt puffy, his vocalizer raw.

 

Something fluttered down onto his lap among the notes, something that had been stuck to the underside of the pillow, and with a jolt, he remembered how he’d half woken in the middle of the night to Drift with his hand under his pillow.

 

His hands shook as he unfolded the little piece of paper, worse for the wear from having been crushed under the weight of his helm for nearly a week.

 

‘ _ I love you.  _

_ To the core of my spark, Ratchet, I have loved, do love you, and will  _ always _ love you. _

_ Please, don’t ever forget that.’ _

 

One tear, then another, dripped from the tip of his nose onto the little paper, and he rushed to dab it away before it ruined the note. Swallowing around the hot lump in his throat, he gathered all of the little notes up into his hands, treating them as delicately as he would a brain module or spark chamber as he stood to reach a box high up on the top shelf. He dumped the contents, broken pieces of a scanner he was admittedly never going to fix, into the waste bin, and laid the notes one by one inside. 

 

The last one, he laid on top, and stared at that  _ I love you _ for long, painful minutes before closing the lid.

 

He had things to take care of, medics to train, and soon enough, a shuttle to commandeer.

 

He didn’t care how long it took.

 

If he had to search to the ends of the universe and beyond, he was finding Drift.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Commission information can be found [here](http://the-sparkbeat.tumblr.com/post/139583432468/price-list-ficlet-100-500-words-1000) if you are interested. Thank you!


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